


Prophetic

by rain_tessa



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_tessa/pseuds/rain_tessa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every night visions swam into his memory. Visions of another time. Someone who looked like him, but was not him. Kankri Vantas post-Scratch attempts to sort the apparitions of his pre-scratch life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                “He is our _prophet_ , you dare question him?”

                “He is a heathen! We’ll all die because of this blasphemy!”

                "The Subjugglators will find us!"

                “No one is asking you to stay!”

                “Yes, in our new world, we’ll remember you deserted us.”

                “That’s not what this is about, it’s not about vengeance fuckers!” He shouted above the noise. He looked down at the mass of people gathered around, two sides staring at each other in anger. “We’re going to change everything for everyone, for the better. We’ll live side-by-side. They can keep their gods, because I am not a god. I am a troll like you. I am not here to lead a revolution, I am here to speak to you. I am-”

                A steady hand stilled him when placed on his arm, “You’re ranting again, darling.”

                “Oh, yes, sorry.” He cleared his throat.

                “Why should we follow a mutant?” One from the crowd spat. His followers roiled in anger.

                “I have seen a different world. A world were mutants like me and lowbloods like you are friends with the highest born. A future where an empress wishes to love us! Yes, I said it! _Love_ , not pity! Our world will change, and we can bring it about.”

 

 

                It started from when he was very young. Visions would swim into his mind, blurring together to show a half-painted picture. He would sometimes see people older than himself, then younger than himself, all interacting with others. One troll was strikingly similar to himself. The same facial structure, the same eyes, yet with a very dissimilar frown. Only sometimes would he see this other-boy smile. Though he and the other-boy were too similar, he knew that this child was not himself, he knew it was another. Nothing from his visions told him that they were not the same, he just _knew_.

                The first time he told Mama Porrim, she stared at him for a long moment; then she asked him to recount everything in his vision. She believed it was a simple day-mare at first, but his description changed her mind immediately. There were images in his visions that he wouldn’t have known and were impossible to fantasize. He would tell her, morning after morning of the visions that plagued him.

Plagued him.

Those children, laughing merrily, chatting together, one angry yet friendly all the time. He yearned for such interactions. The visions were as close as he got to actual friends during his youth. Kankri always wanted to be asleep just so he could try to get glimpses of happy wrigglers. Thoughts of those happy children haunted him throughout the night.

                He wondered who they were, what they were like. The sounds of his visions were always muffled. If he did make out what they were saying in his visions, they were always forgotten the night next. Angrily he would swat his pillow off his bed, as if the offending object had soaked up the memory.  

Soon afterwards she taught him to read and write, mastering all the characters of the Alternian alphabet as quickly as possible; all for the purpose of recounting the elusive visions. Reading and writing were the last things that young Kankri wanted to do. He wanted to go outside at night, he wanted to see other children. He knew that there had to be other children besides himself, he had seen others in his visions, all multi-hued and smiling. He wanted to smile with others too, embrace with them and laugh.

                Mama Porrim stated that since they were so far out in the marshes, there was no one around. There was no way that he could play with other children, back to the writing lesson. His early days followed the monotonous pattern, writing during the night, dreaming during the day. When Mama Porrim would go out for supplies he would beg her to allow him to go with, she would always tell him it was too dangerous.

                Those few instances when she did leave, he would sneak outside. Never straying very far from his home, because the haunting words from Mama Porrim regarding the constant danger of the outside world deterred him, he would stare up into the night sky. Somehow staring into the void of space helped him make sense of all jumble of visions. Or at least that’s what he told himself as an excuse to leave the house.

                Porrim understood the need for her wriggler to get out of the house. But it was much too dangerous for him. The outside world could not know of his blood color, though his eyes had yet to betray him, he was young enough that his mouth might. Any blood color would be justified in killing her Kankri, and she couldn’t imagine her life without him now.

                She would walk with him during the night just as it was turning to day, showing him the swamps and the animals that lurked in the grass. He was curious in everything of the outside world, but he was mostly curious about other trolls. He would often ask her about other trolls, inquiring as to what they were like, who her friends, and why he couldn’t have friends of his own.

                “Trolls are not quick to pity,” Porrim explained to him softly while taking a turn in the high grass with him. “Trolls only look for pity in one. Their other half, their moirail.”

                “Will I have a moirail?”

                “One day, my darling.”

                When he went to sleep he hoped to dream of a moirail. Of friendship he had yet to possess. Instead he was greeted with more images of other trolls, an idyllic setting that he didn’t know. A too-tall and lanky bone riddled troll stood in the forefront, something resembling a cat beside him, two horns, red glasses.

                He sat up quickly, the rush overwhelming him.

                There was nothing to write down. He couldn’t remember anything. Their face and voices were lost to him. Instead he was left with a singular feeling. Isolation. Those trolls did not want him around, those trolls were only pretending in his presence.

                Silence soaked into him, making the isolation feel all too real. Their blank-eyed stares boring into him, the faceless nameless trolls that judged him. In his dream he couldn’t speak to him, yet his felt his mouth moving on its own, slowly they moved away from him, one by one. Those unknown faces pulling away from him as he spoke.

                Drawing his knees up to his chest and placing his head against them, he vowed to not be like that and to live a life surrounded by friends that pitied him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through fire, justice is served. My short take on the Summoner.

                Touching down onto the earth, he was greeted by two attendants outside of the cave. Both wore black robes, silver chains with the symbol of the Sufferer around their necks. They readied themselves, moments away from pulling out their weapons. He pulled out his own, staking his lance into the ground as a sign of peace.

                “I come for a blessing on my cause,” he says slowly, gauging their facial expressions. The two trolls look between each other, uneasy.

                “Our Peeress is not holding visits.”

                “She has not taken visitors since Associate Redglare.”

                “Your ‘Peeress’ will see me, of that I am certain.”

                He pushed himself past the attendants, reading himself for the trip into the chasm.

                The mouth of the cave was not a gaping wide whole sucking into itself like he had expected. Instead, it was just a craggy hole, jagged alone the edges, just slit opening into earth. Slowly, he folded up his wings to slide into the cave. Immediately he felt uneasy, his wings were his main source of protection along with his lance.

                Catching himself on jutting rock every other step, he still pressed forward deeper into the abyss.  The cave served to protect a troll much smaller than himself. As he ventured forward, he finally saw a dim light towards the end of the tunnel. 

                Her back was turned to him; small veined and weathered hands ran down the walls in front of him. Mountains of black hair streaked with white comprised most of his view of the troll. Kneeling in front of her paintings, her index finger ran circumference of a small red heart, flaking with age.

                “Disciple,” he said softly, alerting her to his presence.

                “You are the Summoner?”  She asked, still not turning to face him.

                “I am, I come asking for your blessing.”

                “You shall receive no such thing here, pupa.” She said softly, she turned her head slightly, candle light barely distinguishing her features. A soft small smile could be detected on her features, just barely. “I am not my beloved, I am only his Disciple.”

                “I am leading the rebellion, just like the Sufferer.”

                “The Sufferer did not wish to lead a rebellion, he wanted peace.”

                “Peace cannot be achieved while the Highbloods still rule us, we must take what is ours by force!” His voice steadily rose until he shouted. His words reverberated throughout the cave. Realizing who he was yelling at, he snapped his mouth shut quickly.

                “I have lost everything, young Summoner. Everything. The Sufferer, who pushed the boundaries of quadrants, our furriends, everything… And you wish for me to sanction a war that would cause so much more loss? Do you not have trolls you pity?”

                “No more,” he said quickly in a clipped tone.

                “Then you know loss, and you wish for more.” She struggled to swallow and continue speaking.  “If you are caught, your mutation -ah you thought I didn’t know- your will be your downfall. It will be used against you, just like so many mutants before you.”

                Her mind flashed to other mutants long before. The rivets of candy red blood running down the arms of her Kankri. Blue and Red psiioniics that would be used for the empire against Mituna’s will. Now the Summoner, with his golden wings and charisma, Gog only knows what those wings would be used for the empire.

                “If that is all you have to tell me, coming here was a waste.”

                “Before you go, Summoner, there is one other thing I must tell you.” Meulin licked her lips, reading herself for the last words of the Sufferer, to impart upon this young rebel. “The Sufferer’s wrists burned bright for hours, he proclaimed his last sermon as his life was leaving him. His last words are my parting wisdom to you, for they may help you. His last words were, _‘through fire, justice is served_ ’.”

                His voice rang her mind as clear as the day he shouted those words. A blue arrow shaft stuck out from his body. Through fire, justice is served. Though those words rang out for everyone to hear, there was no justice for the Sufferer; for her Kankri.

                Maybe this Summoner would bring justice to the world.

               

                There was a reason he was called ‘The Summoner’.

                Flying by his side was the gigantic Pyralspite, the lusus of the once Neophyte Redglare. All manner of beasts and trolls rose up to his side, reading themselves for the battle to take place.  Looking at the troops of Calvareapers on the ground who bravely followed him into battle made his heart swell.

                Then his eyes locked with the one troll he had hoped to never see. Leading the army of highbloods was no other than the Grand Highblood himself. A wicked grin was plastered on his face, scarring and tattoos littered his body. When their eyes met, the Grand Highblood lifted a hand signally the onslaught of an attack.

                Pyralspite swooped low, flying over the troops, until a barrage of arrows flung into its hide.  In her last moments she let out a great bellow of fire, crisping some of the unfortunate highbloods to a crisp. He could tell that his troops were losing their resolve now facing such a fearsome enemy.

                “Troops!” The Summoner shouted. “Hold your ground, fight for freedom! _Through fire , justice is served!_ ”

                They advanced, he led the charge. Beasts rose up around them, creating the front lines. The Grand Highblood started laughing. Honking rose up from around the Subjugglators. The Grand Highblood’s eyes turned purple, a miasma filled the battlefield. The rest of the Subjugglators followed their leader, using their chucklevoodoo as an advantage on the battlefield. Other Laughsassins slowly moved away from the fray, choosing to pick their prey off one by one.  The Grand Highblood directed the bluebloods, telling them to march forward on the army.

                The Summoner looked on as his forces dwindled bewildered. They had the upper hand, they had the superior forces even without the Alternian beasts that he had summoned. How were the highbloods winning? Then out of nowhere, an arrow pierced his wing.

                Unable to correct himself with just one wing, his started to tumble. The battle seemed to stop, as both sides watched the leader of the opposition fall. A path was formed leading directly to the Summoner. The Grand Highblood stood over him, blueblood bow in hand with eyes neon purple.

                One monstrous hand came down on the Summoner’s wing, holding him to the ground through the thin layer of chitin and membrane. The Summoner couldn't move, the chucklevoodoo kept him in place as much as the hand on his wing.

                “What is your name?” The Summoner heard the question reverberating through his skull. A long low silky voice with such a menacing undertone that it demanded to be answered.

                “Rufioh Nitram.” The Summoner’s voice was devoid of emotion, just as the chucklevoodoo intend. Then it switched off. There was no echo in Rufioh’s mind, there was no neon purple in the Grand Highblood’s eyes, but the same sinister grin plastered on his face.

                “I want you to feel this,” the Grand Highblood whispered into Rufioh’s ear.

                First pain, then the noise. His wings were ripped off slowly. The tearing sound of his flesh from his body was piercing his mind more than his own screams. His wings were thrown next to his body. Then the Grand Highblood took a match, and lit them on fire.

                “There is no justice on Alternia.”

                His own lace through his heart, drove the point home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prophecies don't work out all the time you know.  
> I wrote the last half so quickly, please forgive me. To be honest, I'm not very satisfied with it. The ending seems so contrived to me, but I'm just going to go with it for now. Please forgive me. D:

**Author's Note:**

> I'm literally doing this to indulge myself over my own personal ships because the fanfics I read don't really include the ships that I want. So bear with me please. I'm not sure how many chapters I wan this to be either. Hopefully I can continue writing it, I have a bad habit of abandoning fics...  
> But thank you very much for reading, I greatly appreciate it.


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